By Jessica Rudd
Meet Ruby Stanhope: late-twenties, workaholic funding banker, Notting Hill fashionista. yet that was once the day prior to this. at the present time Ruby is retrenched, hungover, ?2000 poorer – conserving a same-day, non-refundable price ticket to Melbourne. Arriving in the midst of a heatwave, she meets the chief of the competition at a celebration and is drafted to paintings on his election crusade. Out of her intensity, and working with a breakneck agenda, a scorching (off-limits) journalist, forthcoming deportation and a malfunctioning dresser, Ruby needs to do her top to win the election and locate love. 'From the 1st page…you be aware of you're in for a superb time. it is a roller-coaster, high-heeled adventure…Extremely enjoyable.' Woman's Day
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Extra resources for Campaign Ruby
I stopped brushing and put her back on loudspeaker. ’ ‘Absenteeism,’ she sighed. ‘Clem hardly sees him. He’s always “in conference” according to his PA. Last night he got home at half three and left at seven. ’ ‘I only ’ust ’ot ’ere,’ I said, blotting my lipstick. ‘I’m going to a party tonight at a local winery. ’ It hadn’t occurred to me that she might miss me, but a blip in her voice told me she did. ‘Make sure you stay away from that peanut noise tonight,’ she joked. ’ I pulled on the sky-blue maxi-dress I bought during the Net-A-Porter sale last year and left the bathroom feeling refreshed.
The afternoon was productive. I called Cool Monkey, ordered, had delivered, and demolished their delicious Thai red duck curry—a perfect match for the peanut noise, which I sampled in abundance. I unpacked the crate and tucked each of the remaining ten bottles into my temperature-controlled wine fridge. I even put on a load of washing. Nearing the halfway mark of my second bottle of peanut noise and still impressively sober, I decided to call my sister. The phone rang twice. ’ ‘Good evening, Clementine, it’s Aunty Ruby.
MUMMY! >’ ‘Ruby, you didn’t,’ said Fran, on the bedroom extension. ‘Clem said “erect”,’ I defended myself, dabbing at my calligraphy with make-up remover. ’ Clunk. ‘I should thank you, I guess,’ said Fran. ’ ‘Surely it’s just a little bit sweet,’ I said, imagining my niece standing on ‘tipsy toes’ at the bathroom sink, watching for wiggles in the mirror. ‘Sweet? No. Annoying? Yes. We’re off to the dentist this morning. Poor man. I’m a bad mother if I don’t constantly check for loose teeth and I’m a bad mother for propagating the fallacy that a small, very generous lady is known to spend her evenings breaking into homes to look beneath children’s pillows, taking discarded bodily items for a few quid.